


Do You Want to Bet on That

by phdmama



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Betting, Bisexual Harry Potter, Dancing, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry is pining, Hermione is in charge, Kissing, M/M, Really Hot and Gay Draco, and a bit of an idiot, clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 12:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15049505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phdmama/pseuds/phdmama
Summary: This was sent to me on anon: "I love your Drarry drabbles!! Here's one, if you're in the mood. "Do you want bet on that?" Thanks!!" So, thanks anon prompter! This is what happened. I hope you see and enjoy the results!





	Do You Want to Bet on That

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own these characters and I receive no financial gain from this, I'm just playing in the sandbox! This is a work of fiction, meant only to entertain.
> 
> As always, the words, as well as the errors, are mine.

It’s warm in the bar. Too warm, Harry thinks, pressing the cold glass of his gin and tonic, wet with condensation from the summer air, to his forehead. He’s wedged in between Hermione and Luna, his back to the bar as he watches the crowd. It’s hot, that’s why he’s sweating, no other reason.

His overheated state certainly can’t be attributed to one Draco Malfoy, who’s currently out there writhing on the dancefloor in skin-tight jeans and a fucking _mesh_ shirt, for Merlin’s sake. Draco’s hair is long, caught up off his neck in a careless topknot, and he’s not so much pointy these days as… chiseled. Harry catches a glimpse of toned abs as Draco throws his arms up over his head and grinds back on some _bastard_ who’s dancing way too close to him for Harry’s comfort. That the bastard is Blaise Zabini, and that Harry knows for a goddamn fact that not only is Zabini straight, he’s also head over heels in love with Harry Potter’s very own ex-girlfriend, is beside the point. Draco Malfoy should be grinding on _Harry,_ not some random, ridiculously handsome man. Not that Harry has any right to these… feelings. Draco’s a free agent, free to dance with or kiss or fuck any person he wants, and sadly, he doesn’t seem to want to do any of those things with Harry.

Not that Harry’s asked, mind you. Put himself out there for Draco just to shoot him down, laugh at him and probably humiliate him in front of all of their friends? No thank you, not this guy.

Because they are friends now. Harry’s not entirely sure how that’s happened, but it definitely has. It’s been seven years since the war, and Harry’s life is filled with more ex-Slytherins than seems prudent and yet, here they are. House divisions forgotten. The war is in the past. Everyone’s moved on. Ginny and Blaise are getting married in three days. Ron and Hermione have been married for two years and are talking babies. Draco Malfoy has gotten scorchingly hot and somewhere along the way, Harry’s developed the most inconvenient feelings in the world.

It’s not simply that he wants to pin Draco to the nearest vertical surface and have his way with him. Or let Draco have his way, Harry’s not picky. He’ll go either way. He snickers a bit — he’s always loved a good bisexual joke — and takes a large gulp of his G&T. No, it’s far, far worse than that.

It’s turned out that when Draco’s not under the threat of being murdered or having his family killed right in front of him, and when he’s renounced his pureblood bigotry, he’s actually pretty great. Wickedly funny. Sure, his tongue is sharp, but the mean-spirited edge is gone, and he’s become a fixture at basically every meaningful social event, and even the unmeaningful ones, for a couple of years now.

Draco’s become someone Harry… admires. Draco and Neville had gone on the motivational speaker circuit after the war, with Draco speaking out against injustice and bigotry, decrying his own part in the war. He’d spent millions of his own galleons to work on rebuilding their world. He’d apologized, again and again. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his bespoke cotton shirt and worked to rebuild Hogwarts. He volunteers at the local animal shelter, and Harry’s pretty sure his fate was sealed when a photo of Draco snuggling an armload of kittens with a look of pure joy on his face had run on Page 6 of the Prophet.

He’d deny it any day of the week and twice on Sundays that he’s got that photo in the top drawer of his bedside table, but he’d be lying. He _definitely_ has that photo in the top drawer of his bedside table.

In any case, Draco’s on the crowded dance floor looking hotter than any man has a right to, and Harry’s stuck on the side, watching him, and it feels like nothing about this will ever change.

“Oh for god’s sake,” Hermione says, her tone equal parts amused and annoyed. “Just ask him to dance, Harry.”

“What?” Harry stares at her.

She can’t actually be saying what he thinks she might be saying, because he’s been 100%, totally and completely discreet about his terrible, horrible, no good, very big crush on Draco Malfoy.

“Draco,” Hermione clarified, “Just fucking go ask him to dance.”

“What?” Harry asks again, trying for understated outrage, and overshooting his mark by at least a kilometer, judging from the look on Hermione’s face. “I mean, psshh.” He makes a noise he’s never made before and waves his hands a bit, gin slopping out of his glass. He hastily takes another sip. “I can’t even. What? Hermione! I mean.”

Ron leans around from where he’s standing on the other side of Hermione. “She’s right, mate. You should just do it.”

 _“What?”_ Harry is truly horrified now, and with every word he utters, his voice gets higher and higher. “I mean, Ron. No! What on earth? I just. What is even happening? Have you both been, I don’t know, _sniffing glue?”_

Ron snorts and leans back against the bar as Hermione says, “No, Harry, we’ve just been watching you pine for years, and. Enough.”

“I’m not pining,” Harry says firmly, although he definitely is.

“Oh, Harry.” Hermione’s voice is pitying. “You are. You talk about him all the time. You sigh when he has to miss any event. You stare at his ass, like, all the time. You’ve got that picture in your bedside table. You’re pining, Harry, and it has to stop.”

Harry can feel that his eyes have gotten very big as he stares at Hermione. “You _know?”_ he whispers in horror, “About the picture? How do you know?”

“Oh, well.” Hermione flushes and fiddles with the umbrella in her colorful cocktail. “When we were housesitting for you when you went to America for that month of training? I, err. I saw it.”

Harry flushes as he remembers what else he keeps in that bedside table drawer and resolves never to think of this again. And to hide his sex toys next time he goes to America on a training course.

“I can’t just ask him to dance, Hermione,” he says, understanding that he’s perilously close to whining for a man who’s about to turn 25, but some situations just call for that.

“Why not?” Hermione asks, way, way too reasonably. “He’s single, you’re single. He’s cute, you’re cute. He’s gay, you’re bi. And I think he’s into you, too.”

“What? No. _No.”_ Harry shakes his head, finishes his drink. “No way. I ask Draco Malfoy to dance, and he’s going to laugh in my face.”

Hermione’s eyes narrow and then she says it.

“You want to bet on that?”

“What?” Harry stares at her, heart racing.

“I said,” Hermione says, deliberately, not breaking eye contact, “You want to bet on that.”

She looks smug, and rightly so, Harry thinks. He’s never been able to back down from a challenge, and he’s done some pretty odd (and occasionally) amazing things for the sake of a bet. He’s spelled his hair pink for a month (easy); he’s taken belly dancing lessons (less easy, it’s a tough core workout); he’s donated a lot of money to a variety of charities (super easy, he would have done that anyway); and eaten the worm, twice (not so easy and he can’t believe he was stupid enough to do it a second time, but a bet’s a bet).

“What are you saying, Hermione,” he says firmly, trying to put on his no-nonsense, _I’m the saviour of the world and a grown up_ voice. It works on Teddy. Well, sometimes it works on Teddy.

“I’m saying, Harry,” Hermione says, just as firmly, “That I bet that if you go ask Draco to dance, he’ll say yes.”

Harry narrows his eyes, the thrill of the dare setting fire to his blood. “Terms?” he demands and Hermione smirks, because she knows, damnit, she _knows_ she’s got him.

“You, Harry James Potter, will, within the next two minutes, walk out onto that dance floor and you will ask one Draco Malfoy to dance, with you, right then and there, on that dance floor. Tonight. If said Draco Malfoy laughs in your face, I will…” she pauses, thinking for a moment. “I will take a full page ad in the Prophet that says ‘Harry Potter is a genius.’”

Oh. Ooooooh. Harry smiles. He likes that. “Signed Hermione Granger,” he adds. “The ad has to say, ‘Signed Hermione Granger.’”

Hermione nods once. “Agreed.”

“And if he says yes, and doesn’t laugh in my face?” Harry asks. “What’s my forfeit if I lose.”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione says, and her voice suddenly gentles, “If he says yes, you haven’t lost, have you? You win either way.” Her voice hardens again, “But if he says yes, I get gloating rights for the next three years, whenever I want.”

Oh wow. Harry pauses. Those are some high stakes. Hermione Granger holds a grudge like it’s going out of style, and she is a champion gloater. High stakes, which means she thinks she’s got a sure thing here.

“One year,” he counters.

“Two,” she barks out, and he nods.

“Sold.”

“Witnessed,” Ron and Luna both chime in from either side of them, and Harry and Hermione shake hands.

Hermione casts a quick Horae charm, and the timer starts ticking down. Harry stares at it, feeling a bead of sweat dripping down his back. He glances down at himself and recoils in horror.

“Hermione,” he hisses, “Null and void, _null and void._ I can’t fucking ask Draco to dance wearing this.”

 _This_ is his oldest, rattiest jeans shorts and Ron’s ancient Chudley Cannons shirt. There's been a heat wave and Harry’s been repainting Grimmauld Place. He’d been running late, so he’d barely had time to shower and then just grabbed the first clean thing he could find from the laundry pile before he’d apparted over to the bar. Luna doesn’t like it when they’re late, it makes her worry, and Harry would rather poke himself in the ear with a sharp stick then make Luna worry. At least he's clean, but that's pretty much the only redeeming feature of his outfit.

Hermione shrugs. “Terms and conditions have been defined. You agreed. Verbal contract. And we shook on it. You want to forfeit, go right ahead.”

She stares off into space for a moment and Harry knows she’s fucking visualizing that fucking Prophet ad right then and there. Hermione’s _great_ at visualizing.

“Fine,” he throws up his hands, forgetting that he’s still holding his glass, and manages both to smack himself in the cheekbone with it and dump the ice all down his front.

Great, just fucking _great._ He’s going to ask Draco Malfoy to dance, with a welt on his cheek and a great big stain down his shirt front, in _jorts._ Could this day get any worse? He hastily stops that thought and sets the glass down on the bar, not wanting to tempt fate any further. It’s dark, maybe Draco won’t notice the stain or the bruise.

“Ooo, that looks like it smarts. You want ice for it?” the bartender asks and Harry sighs.

“No,” he says gloomily, “I need to go ask the man I’ve been dreaming about for a really long time to dance or my friend gets gloating rights.”

The bartender eyes Harry and then says kindly, “Well, good luck with that, mate. I’ll, err, just pour you a fresh one, alright?”

Hermione nudges Harry with her pointy elbow. “Come on, Harry, you’ve got two seconds left, you’ve got to get out there on the floor.”

Harry sighs, and then does what he’s always done. He throws caution and any vague plan to the winds, and he marches out onto the dance floor and right up to Draco, who’s dancing with his eyes closed. Blaise’s eyes widen as Harry approaches and he looks delighted as he unhooks himself from Draco and backs up a couple of steps. Draco’s eyes open as he twists around just in time to see Blaise shoot finger guns at Harry and walk off the dance floor.

Draco turns back around and stares at Harry, and merciful heavens, he looks _so good._ He’s strong and lean, with that ridiculous mesh shirt. Harry can see his nipples, for god’s sake, and they’re far, far too enticing for public viewing. Harry sees the tattoos he’d like to trace with his tongue, winding around Draco’s biceps, and wants to whimper, just a bit.

He also wants to crawl into the corner and curl up and die just a tiny bit, because Draco is staring at him, a baffled expression on his face, though even confused looks gorgeous on him, the bastard.

A smile crosses Draco's face as he watches Harry approach, and he lifts one eyebrow. “What have we here? A Potter on the dance floor?”

Harry attempts to shove his hands into his pockets but his jorts are really tight, so they only go in halfway, but he’s committed to the gesture now, so he just goes with it.

“Thought I might take a turn, yeah.”

He immediately wants to kick himself. _Take a turn?_ Who the fuck says that? He's well-aware that Hermione is listening through a subtle Acupet charm that allows her to hear what’s happening. He’s quite sure that she’s laughing at him, and a quick glance confirms his suspicion. She's snickering, and then she waves at him and and he knows he’s got to ask the question.

“Do you want to dance?”

Draco looks even more confused and Harry realizes that he’s whispered the words and they’ve obviously been drowned out by the music.

He takes a deep breath as Draco leans in, saying “What was that, Potter? I couldn’t hear you.”

“DO YOU WANT TO DANCE?” He shouts out the words as Draco’s head nears his own, but of course, that’s the moment the DJ chooses to drop the music for a second so there’s a brief instance of silence and his words ring throughout the club.

Draco leaps back, a hand pressed to his ear, a look of shock on his face, and Harry decides immediately that he’s going to have to move to Budapest, there’s simply no other option for him. He can hear Hermione cackling in the background, and then the music kicks in, and Harry flees the dance floor.

He moves through the crowd, carefully not making eye contact with anyone and shoves his way out the fire door into the alley behind the club. He leans against the wall and resists the urge to bang his head once or twice on the brick wall. It’s cool outside after the sweaty heat of the club, and there’s a mist in the air. For a moment, Harry wishes he smoked, it’s the perfect atmosphere to look moodily off into the distance with a cigarette dangling from your lips, but alas, he’s never taken up that particular vice.

Then the door from the club opens, and Malfoy steps out into the alley. He glances around and then sees Harry standing in the shadows, and makes his way over.

“Potter,” he says, and then pauses, as if uncertain how to continue.

“Malfoy,” Harry says.

There’s silence and then Malfoy says, “What were the terms?”

Harry stares at him. “What are you talking about?”

“The terms of the bet,” Malfoy says impatiently. “I know that’s the only reason you’d ask me to dance, so what were they? I’m just,” he swallows, “Interested.”

He doesn’t sound simply interested though, Harry thinks, he sounds almost… hurt.

Harry stares at him. “Wait a minute,” he says slowly, “What do you think just happened in there?”

Malfoy moves in closer and mimics Harry’s position, leaning against the wall. “I think that you’ve made some foolhardy bet with Granger and Weasley. You’re known for them, after all.”

Harry frowns. “And what, exactly, do you think the… purpose of the bet was?”

Malfoy shrugs. “How do I know what goes on in your tiny little brain, Potter. I’m assuming they bet that you wouldn’t want to be seen dancing in public with me, and you never turn down a dare.”

“Why on earth would you say that?” Harry asks, stung. “That I wouldn’t want to be seen dancing in public with you?”

Malfoy looks away. “Because you never dance when I’m in the crowd, you just sit on the sidelines, but I see you dance with everyone else. It’s not that difficult to understand, Potter.”

Harry’s heart starts to pound and he is beginning to think he’s been a huge idiot. He’s not sure why this surprises him, as it’s nowhere near the first time, but he thinks maybe he’s gotten this whole thing wrong. All this time he's been looking at Malfoy, he's never realized that Malfoy's been looking back.

“Malfoy,” he says carefully, “Would you have… wanted me to dance with you?”

Malfoy looks away, makes a face that conveys something in between _of course, you tosser_ and _it makes no difference to me,_ and Harry moves in closer, close enough that he can see the shimmer of sweat on Malfoy’s upper lip, can catch a whiff of his cologne, something spicy and soft.

“Draco,” he says again, quietly this time, “Would you have wanted me to dance with you.”

Draco stares at him for a long moment, and then looks away, giving one curt nod, and Harry starts to laugh.

“You’re right,” he says, reaching one hand out to snag Draco around the waist and start to pull him in. “Hermione did bet me to ask you to dance, but not because I don’t want to be seen in public with you.”

“Oh?” Draco asks, sounding breathless as Harry yanks him close, so their bodies are flush, pressed up against each other. “Then why?”

Harry leans in, “Because I’ve been too scared to do it and she got tired of me pining.”

“Oh,” Draco says again, “That’s…” and whatever it is, is lost to time as Harry kisses him, the way he’s been imagining for years now.

Harry kisses him and Draco gives a muffled cry of surprise and then winds himself around Harry, holding on tight, and the kiss is immediately blazing hot, consuming Harry entirely, and it's probably way too much, way too soon, but Harry can’t help himself. Every ounce of longing, every shard of desire he feels, he pours out of himself into Draco, and Draco meets him there in that place of desperation, as if he never thought he’d get to have this.

They kiss and they kiss, and Harry presses Draco into the wall of the club, the bass line throbbing through him as they move together. His hands are in Draco’s hair and Draco’s hands are plastered to his arse and it’s a very pleasing turn of events. So pleasing, in fact, that when Draco’s hand slips down between them to cup Harry through the fabric of his jorts, he stiffens, his hips shudder and he _comes,_ right there in the alley.

“Oh god,” he moans, suffused with pleasure and embarrassment, “Fuck, Draco.”

Draco pushes him back just a bit and stares at him. His cheeks are flushed, his lips are swollen and his hair is an absolute disaster and Harry can’t get enough of him.

“Did you just…” Draco asks, and Harry nods.

“Merlin,” Draco breathes, and hauls Harry in for another kiss, “Fuck me, that’s hot.”

They kiss some more, but gentler now, even though Harry can feel the thick line of Draco’s cock pressing against his abdomen as they lean into one another.

Finally, Draco takes a deep breath. “So, what were they?”

“What?” Harry stares at him, confused.

“The terms,” Draco says, “of the bet? What were they?”

“Oh,” Harry runs a hand through his hair. “Err, well. Hermione bet me that I wouldn’t ask you to dance, so of course I said I would. I thought you’d laugh in my face, to be honest. If you had, she was going to have to take out a full-page ad in the Prophet proclaiming my genius. But since you didn’t, well.” He sighs. “She’s got two year of gloating rights on this.”

Draco is clearly trying not to laugh and finally gives up. “Two years? That’s rough. I hope,” and suddenly he looks vulnerable, bites his lip. “I hope it’s worth it?”

And Harry takes a moment just to look at him, and then says, “Well, she pointed out that even if I lost, I’d still have won, and honestly... “ His voice trails off and he reaches up to run his knuckles down Draco’s cheek, to trace the bow of his upper lip with his thumb, and then to follow up with a kiss, thrilled that he gets to do this now, and plans to do it again and again. “I have to say, she’s not wrong.”

“So this is,” Draco asks quietly, “This is what you want?”

Harry nods. “So much, Draco, you don’t even know. But what do you want? What comes next?”

Draco takes Harry’s hand, places it on the tantalizing bulge between his legs and says, “First, you’re going to help me take care of this, right here, right now. And then, we’re going to go to my place, or yours, and I’m going to fuck you, or you’re going to fuck me, I’m really not picky, and then,” he groans as Harry quickly unbuckles his jeans and shoves them down far enough to get Draco’s cock out. There’ll be time later for finesse and skill, Harry thinks, his hand closing over the warm flesh he finds there, but for now, _this._

His hand speeds up and Draco says, “Tomorrow, we’re taking out a full page ad in the Prophet proclaiming Hermione Granger a… oh fuck, _fuck_ Harry, you’re making me... Granger is a fucking _genius,”_ and he gives a shout and comes all over Harry’s hand and jorts and Ron’s Chudley Cannons shirt.

It’s not until they show up for Sunday brunch the next day, late and flustered, barely decent, and Hermione says, “So, when I can expect that ad in the Prophet, lads?” that Harry remembers he’d never ended the eavesdropping charm.

Oh well, he thinks philosophically, as he holds Draco’s hand with one hand and eats his eggs with the other, she _is_ a genius and the world deserves to know.  


**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to [come say hi on Tumblr!](http://phd-mama.tumblr.com/) If you enjoyed this, the rest of my stuff can be [found here!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/phdmama/works)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and I would love it if you left a kudos or a comment, they mean so much!
> 
> Also wonderful, [here's the rebloggable Tumblr post](https://phd-mama.tumblr.com/post/175246007698/i-love-your-drarry-drabbles-heres-one-if), if you'd like to share!


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